Paris: The Novel Read Free Page A

considered. He knew that he was lucky. And he valued what he had. He loved the old family house at Fontainebleau, with its enclosed courtyard, his grandfather’s First Empire furniture and leather-bound books. He loved the elegant royal château in the town, older and more modest than the vast palace of Versailles. On Sundays he would walk in the nearby Forest of Fontainebleau, or ride out to the village of Barbizon, where Corot had painted landscapes filled with the haunting light of the River Seine. In Paris, he was happy trading in the great medieval wholesale market of Les Halles, with its brightly colored stalls, and bustle, and the scents of cheeses, herbs and fruits from every region of France. He was proud of his intimate knowledge of the city’s ancient churches, and its ancient inns with their deep wine cellars.
    Yet it wasn’t enough.
    “I’m bored,” he said. “I want to change my career.”
    “To what, my dear Jules?”
    “I have a plan,” he confided. “It will astonish you.” He made a sweeping gesture. “A new business for the new Paris.”
    When Jules Blanchard spoke of the new Paris, he didn’t mean only the broad boulevards of Baron Haussmann. Even from the days of France’s great Gothic cathedrals, Paris had liked to think of herself—at least in northern Europe—as the leader of fashion. Parisians had not been pleased when, a quarter century ago, in a dramatic palace of glass built for the occasion, London had captured international headlines with her Great Exhibition of all that was new and exciting in the world. New York had followed soon after. But by 1855, Paris was ready to fight back, and her new emperor, Napoléon III, had opened her Universal Exposition of industry and the arts, in a stupendous hall of iron, glass and stone on the Champs-Élysées. A dozen years later Paris did it again, this time on the vast parade ground on the Left Bank known as the Champ de Mars. This 1867 exhibition was the biggest the world had ever seen, featuring many marvels, including Siemens’s first electric dynamo.
    “I want a department store,” said Jules. New York had department stores: Macy’s was thriving. London had Whiteleys in the suburbs and a few cooperatives, but nothing dramatic yet. Paris was already ahead in size and style, with Bon Marché and Printemps. “It’s the future,” Jules declared. And he began to describe the store he had in mind, a greatpalace selling all kinds of merchandise to a huge audience. “Style, keen prices, right in the center of the city,” he explained with growing excitement, while Joséphine watched him with fascination.
    “I never knew you could be so passionate,” she remarked.
    “Oh.”
    “I mean, in the head.” She smiled.
    “Ah.”
    “And what does your father think?”
    “He will not hear of it.”
    “What will you do?”
    “Wait.” He sighed. “What else can I do?”
    “You would not go off on your own?”
    “Difficult. He controls the money. And to disrupt the family …”
    “You love your father, don’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Be kind to your father and to your wife, my dear Jules. Be patient.”
    “I suppose so.” He was silent for a while. Then he brightened. “But I still want to call my daughter Joséphine.”
    Then, explaining that he must get back to his wife, he got up to go. She laid a restraining hand on him.
    “You must not do this, my friend. For my sake, also. Don’t do it.”
    But without committing himself, he paid the waiter and left.
    After he had gone, Joséphine was thoughtful. Did he really mean to call his daughter Joséphine? Or, remembering a foolish promise made long ago, had he just played a pretty scene, putting her in a position where he could be sure she would free him from that promise? She smiled to herself. It didn’t matter. Even if the latter, it was kind and clever of him.
    She liked clever men. And it amused her that she was still left wondering what he would do.

    The tall woman